Don DeLillo - End Zone

They stayed on the ground, moving to our 16. Telcon rolled out right, threw left. Their tight end, all alone on the 5, walked in with it. I felt tired suddenly. A wave of sorrow passed over our bench. After the extra point, they kicked away from Taft, a low floater that Ted Joost fell on at the 29. Taft picked up three on a ripslant. Roy Yellin came up limping.

"Walk it off," Kimbrough told him.

"Oh mother," Yellin said. "Oh Grace Porterfield Yellin. Oh it hurts, it hurts."

"Walk it off, shovelhead."

Zone set, triple tex, offhit recon dive.

I was passblocking for Hobbs. The big thing, 77, shed Yellin and came dogpaddling in. I jammed my helmet into his chest and brought it up fast, striking his chin. He made a noise and kept coming, kept mauling me. He backed me up right into Hobbs and we all went down. I heard the coaches screaming, their voices warming our huddle. Hobbs left the pocket and threw to Taft in a crowd. A linebacker tipped it, gained control and brought it in. Taft got a piece of him and Ron Steeples put him down. As we went off, Oscar Veech screamed into our chests.

"What in the hell is going on here? What are you feebs doing out there? What in the goddamn goatshit hell is the name of the game you people are playing?"

The ball was spotted at our 33. Dennis Smee moved along the line, slapping helmets and pads. Jessup sat next to me on the bench. Blades of grass were stuck to the dry blood on his face. Centrex shifted into a tightT. Halfback picked up four. Telcon kept for six. Halfback went straight ahead for nine. Halfback went straight ahead for eight. Fullback went offtackle for four. Fullback went straight ahead, taking George Dole into the end zone with him. The extra point was good.

"Feeuck," Jessup said.

"It's all over."

"Feeuck, man. This game is still on. I get that sixtytwo yet. I get his ass and whip it into shape. Damnright. get that shitpiss sixtytwo and beat his black ass into the ground."

"He's white,"Isaid.

"I know he's white. They're all white. Everybody's white. Those black fucks."

Taft took the kickoff six yards deep and brought it out to the 44. Len Skink reported in for Yellin. Randy King replaced Onan Moley. Terry Madden came in at quarterback. He hit Taft on a snowbird flare for no gain. He threw deep to Steeples incomplete. He fumbled the snap and fell on it. Bing Jackmin met me at the sideline.

"Our uniforms are green and white," he said. "The field itself is green and white-grass and chalk markings. We melt into our environment. We are doubled in the primitive mirror."

I walked down to the very end of the bench. Raymond Toon was all alone, talking into his right fist.

"There it goes, end over end, a high spiral. The deep man avoids or evades would be better. Down he goes, woof. First and ten at the twentysix or thirtyone. Now they come out in a flood left to work against a rotating zone."

"Toony, that's not a flood."

"Hey, Gary. Been practicing."

"So have we."

"There they go. Andy Chudko, in now for Butler, goes in high, number sixtyone, Andy Chudko, fumble, fumble, six feet even, about two twentyfive, doubles at center on offense, Chudko, Chudko, majoring in airport commissary management, plays a guitar to relax, no other hobbies, fumble after the whistle. College football-a pleasant and colorful way to spend an autumn afternoon. There goes five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven yards, big thirtyfive, twelve yards from our vantage point here at the Orange Bowl in sundrenched Miami, Florida. John Billy Small combined to bring him down. John Billy, as they break the huddle, what a story behind this boy, a message of hope and inspiration for all those similarly afflicted, and now look at him literally slicing through those big ballcarriers. Capacity crowd. Emmett Big Bend Creed. Mike Mallon, they call him Mad Dog. Telcon. Multitalented. A magician with that ball. All the color and excitement. He's got it with a yard to spare off a good block by fiftythree or seventythree. Woof. Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh or Cincinnati. Perfect weather for football. Time out on the field. And now back to our studios for this message. They're a powerhouse, Gary. They play power football. I'd like to get in there and see what I could do. It looks like some of the guys got banged up pretty bad."

"Nobody's died yet. But then the game isn't over." "Telcon looks out over the defense. He's a good one. Hut, hut, offside. He's one of the good ones. Plenty of hitting out on that field. I'm sure glad I'm up here. D.C. Stadium in trie heart of the nation's capital. Crisp blue skies. Emmett Big Bend Creed. And there's more on tap next week when the Chicago Bears, the monsters of the midway, take on the always rough and tough Green Bay Packers of coach something something. Gary, what's going to happen up there on the banks of the Fox River in little Green Bay when the big bad Bears come blowing in from the windy city?"

"You'd better take it easy," I said. "Try to get a grip on things. I'm serious, Toony. You'd better slow down. I really think you'd better watch yourself."

I went over and sat with Garland Hobbs. Centrex was running sweeps. They picked up a first down at our 38. People began to go home. Somebody in the stands behind us, way up high, was blowing into some kind of air horn. It sent a prehistoric cry across the night, a message of grief from the hills down to the suffering plain. Objects were thrown out of the stands.

"Fug," Hobbs said. "That's all I can say. That's the only word in my head right now. Fug, fug, fug."

Somebody fumbled and Link Brownlee fell on it. I hit Hobbs on the pads and went out. Terry Madden left the pocket, what there was of it, and headed toward the sideline, looking downfield for someone to throw to. Their left end pushed him out of bounds and a linebacker knocked him over the Centrex bench. I strolled over there. Players were milling about, shoving each other just a bit.

Jessup to Dumber 62: "Suckmouth. Peach pit. Shitfinger."

They got fifteen yards for roughing. We went to the near hashmark and huddled. Madden's nose was bleeding, Aí the snap I moved into my frozen insect pose, ready to passblock. Jessup ignored his pass route and went right at the linebacker playing over him, 62, leading with a forearm smash to the head and following with a kick in the leg. I watched 62 actually bare his teeth. Soon everybody was in it, swinging fists and headgear, kicking, spitting, holding on to pads, clutching jerseys, both benches emptying now, more objects sailing out of the stands. I was in the very middle of the rocking mass. It was relatively safe there. We were packed too tightly for any serious punching or kicking to be done. The real danger was at the periphery where charges could be made, individual attacks mounted, and I felt quite relaxed where I was, being rocked back and forth. A lot of crazed eyes peered out of the helmets nearby. In the distance I could see some spectators climbing over the guard rails and running onto the field. Then there was a sudden shift in equilibrium and I caught an elbow in the stomach. I turned, noted color of uniform, and started swinging. I moved in for more, very conscious of the man's number, 45, backfield, my size or smaller. Somebody ran into me from behind and I went down. It was impossible to get up. I crawled over bodies and around churning legs. I reached an open area and got to my knees. There was someone standing above me, a spectator, a man in a white linen suit, his hand over his mouth, apparently concealing something, and he seemed to be trying to speak to me, but under the circumstances it was not possible to tell what he was saying or even in what language he was saying it. A player tripped over me; another player, backpedaling, ended in my lap. Then I was completely buried. By the time I got out, it was just about over. Jessup and 62 were down on the ground, motionless in each other's arms, neither one willing to relinquish his hold. But nobody was fighting now and the officials moved in. It took them about half a minute to persuade Jessup to let go of the other player. I felt all right. My ribs didn't ache for the moment. Both men were thrown out for fighting. The field was cleared. Randy King sat on the grass, trying to get his right shoe back on.